


Epitaph

by agent_cupcake



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Porn, F/M, Face-Fucking, Heavy Angst, Oral Sex, Post- Crimson Flower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28824546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_cupcake/pseuds/agent_cupcake
Summary: This was wrong. He was taking something that was never meant for him. What never was, what never could be. But Felix liked the way you melted into him. He could feel his cock twitch in response to your little gasp when he bit your bottom lip. He’d feel guilty afterward, but what did that matter? He’d never be given absolution regardless. Felix wasn’t even sure if he believed in such a convenience.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	Epitaph

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy this is
> 
> Something.
> 
> The main character is based on my Beastie and the Bard character. Some of the dialogue in this is lifted directly from the WIP next chapter that I cut because it implied a level of intimacy between the reader and Felix that clearly isn't there because Felix gets cucked enough for me to draw the line. Buuuuut, in this instance, he kinda did it to himself. He bleeds tragedy. I love his endings non-Azure Moon. I do feel a bit bad because he deserves better than this but at the same time I love angst.

Felix wasn’t sure what time it was when he left his room. Late. Late enough that the moon had risen beyond the frame of the warped window. Late enough that the Meadowsweet Inn itself seemed to be sleeping, breathing deeply as the spring wind blew past it. Late enough that he couldn’t spend even a moment more pacing the length of his cramped quarters, late enough that his patience was nearly entirely frayed.

Nobody was awake to stop him as he crept through the dark inn. Up one flight of stairs, focused entirely on listening for any disturbances that would indicate trouble. Then the second, stepping carefully to avoid any squeaky boards. This was a bad idea. It could only end poorly. But he continued up the third flight of stairs regardless of that foreboding thought. He had to know.

He had to know because you were supposed to be dead.

Felix didn’t believe in ghosts. Stories like that were for the weak of mind, people who either couldn’t accept reality as it was or allowed themselves to be frightened by imaginary phantoms. But here you were, a woman who was supposed to be dead performing music in some backwater town. Felix didn’t believe in fate or luck, either. He scoffed at the folly of people who put their faith in such superstitious bunk. But here he was, chasing a lead regarding a budding rebellion and winding up in that very same backwater town. Felix didn’t have much of a sense of humor these days, but this felt an awful lot like the set up to some bad joke.

When he heard a musician testing the notes on a lyre during his meal, he wasn’t interested. The quality of music in what used to be Faerghus was usually somewhere between bad and terrible. But those notes began to shape a song, and then the musician began to sing. At that moment, his entire body went stiff, limbs and torso drawing taunt and the fine hairs along the back of his neck standing on end.

Felix heard that voice, that painfully familiar voice, and memories broke open like a skull giving way to rock, flooded his mind.

You. You with pink cheeks and a lovely voice, you with a reckless smile and your eyes dancing with delight. In the Academy days —days he tried so hard to block from his mind— you were nothing more than a pretty fool, playing and laughing and singing and burning yourself out with your desire to make everybody happy. Felix had scorned the performance of your act, some gnarled part of himself annoyed that you could be so carefree in a world where he had been stripped of that luxury. But when you faced him with that irresponsible grin, he couldn’t help but feel drawn in. When you sang, when you trained, when you studied, when you interacted with people —you put your entire self into it. The world hadn’t yet hurt you, your soul unburdened by the pain he knew so well. He couldn’t even be jealous of your innocence. Back then, all he felt was the deeply buried and _detestable_ wish to have a piece of you for himself.

But that was the desecrated past. You were dead. Everyone was dead, drowned by rain or burned to ash. It was, and always had been, just him. Felix Hugo Fraldarius, standing alone and victorious.

Or so he had believed.

You were older, now. Different, now. But it was you, sitting on the little stage on a stool with your lyre in hand, your face animated as you sang a tavern tune that was meant to be catchy and easy to learn, easy to sing along to. Felix steadied himself against the bar, afraid he’d lose his balance as he stared. But it didn’t matter how long he looked, it was still you. The song ended, the crowd cheered, and you began a new one. You didn’t look at him, he doubted you could feel the individual intensity of his eyes. That was how it had always been, wasn’t it? Back in those days when he forced an aloof mask and pretended like it didn’t affect him when you turned that smile to other boys, dancing around them in the same way as you did him. You had never seemed to understand his feelings the way Felix wanted you to, never accepted his warnings to avoid Him, the one who didn’t deserve you. Then again, had _you_ actually deserved Him?

That thought was searing, sickening.

The song ended and you chanced a look upwards, meeting his gaze with an almost magnetic pull from beneath your painted eyelashes. Despite any change, those were your eyes. Unmistakable. You recognized him, he knew that with a zinging shock of electricity. Felix froze in place. So did you, your lips parting in surprise as you looked at him from across the room. People were calling out recommendations for the next song, chattering and drinking, but it was all meaningless. Nothing but the annoying buzz of a fly. Your eyes were the same, still somewhat glazed from the song in a way he remembered, your face flushed. His chest ached, such a physically present sensation he could almost believe it was from an invisible attack.

You finally looked away, clearing the spell, and Felix shook his head to reorient himself, silently cursing whatever it was that had come over him. Memories, thinking of the past —that was all useless. He knew more than anyone the damage that could be done by being unable to let go of things better left behind.

But you were supposed to be dead. 

You began another song and he returned to his food, his back hunched as if you were a storm he was trying to shelter himself from. Even if you were alive, it didn’t matter. This was the life you’d run away to, hiding where the Empire couldn’t find you. What could speaking to you possibly do other than aggravate the past? Felix nearly had himself convinced of his apathy —what was that phrase? Ships passing in the night?— until he was slipped a note with a simple message. An invitation. Wait until after dark, come upstairs to the attic room.

And he had to know. 

Felix hesitated at the top of the stairs, facing the door that could only be yours. Light from inside framed the door, seeping out into the dark hall. He didn’t like to think of himself as being nervous, just cautious. This was a bad idea. It could easily be a trap. And why wouldn’t it be? You had every reason to loathe him.

Before he could make up his mind about how he wanted to approach this, you made the choice for him by throwing the door open. Wide, hopeful, nervous eyes met his, the light of the single lamp pouring out into the dark stairwell.

“You came,” you said. Was that excitement in your voice? Surprise? Either way, it was an enthusiasm that he didn’t understand. It was out of place and unwanted. How could you possibly smile at _him_? What did it mean? It was impossible for him to tell.

Felix felt himself frown, averting his eyes from yours. “Of course I did. You invited me.” 

“Yeah, but that… It doesn’t matter. Please, come in,” you said, stepping aside. Your movements were jittery. Was that because of the nerves or because you were planning to attack him? Felix had left his sword in his room, but the dagger inside his coat would be far more useful in these cramped quarters anyway. He eyed you, trying to judge if you were obscuring a weapon. Your dress was flimsy, although Dorothea had shown Felix on more than one occasion that hiding a blade in such garments was easily doable.

Despite that —or because of that— he stepped inside. The small attic room smelled of exposed wood, old and bitten by rot, and sweet floral perfume. Between the furniture and all of the junk you seemed perfectly happy to leave lying around, the space was cramped and cluttered. Much like your dorm at the Academy. Shockingly similar, all things considered.

That was another regrettable memory. Once, when the Imperial Strike Force had begun using Garreg Mach as a base, Felix had curiously gone into the abandoned dorm that used to belong to you. Everything was as it had been, other than a messy spill of clothes from the dresser from when you hastily ran from the monastery. There were ribbons and trinkets on the dresser, an array of books and notes on the desk, bottles of scents and other such silly luxuries in front of the mirror, and a half embroidered handkerchief on the nightstand. He’d toyed with taking that, the lettering partially through your second initial, before stalking out of the room in disgust of how sentimental and foolish such a thing would be. The two of you were enemies. You had been for the long drag of a five year campaign.

You were enemies still.

“Please, sit,” you offered, clearing the only chair in the room of a few dresses and gesturing to it with restless hands. “Do you want anything to drink?”

“I’m fine,” Felix responded. He should have turned around. Remembering your dorm only reminded him of everything that was lost, of everything that never was. And his weakness. He thought he’d killed all of those by now.

Felix sat down.

“I know that,” you said softly, setting two glasses on the table and unstopping a bottle after fishing it out from the clutter. “This was a gift, actually. I was told that it’s meant to invoke the memory of happier days. Seems pretty fitting, right?” You grinned at him after pouring you both drinks.

Felix held back a scoff. Happier days. Meaningless tripe. He couldn’t remember what had never been. But he didn’t say that, nor did he refuse the drink. Considering the physical advantage he possessed and your forcibly cheery demeanor, it was seeming less and less likely that you’d try to attack him. If that was the case, a poison made sense. It was better to go along with it as long as he could. After all, he’d only come here to get answers. Felix wrapped his fingers around the glass and settled on a dry, “Thanks.”

“Of course,” you said with a smile, sitting on the edge of your bed and raising your glass in a mock toast. He didn’t reciprocate, simply watching as you drank, wondering how long you would make him wait before making your true intentions known. How long until those wide eyes of yours narrowed into a glare and you told him all of the things he already knew, leveling all of your hatred directly at him? Oddly, he felt something like anticipation at that moment. And annoyance that you’d draw it out.

So he watched, tapping his middle finger in a random beat against the side of his drink. Your fingers were strong, as elegant in holding the cup as they were when you set them to your lyre. When you put the glass aside, some of the mead lingered on your lips, adding a shine to the pink that you quickly licked away. His eyes lingered there for a moment before rising to meet yours.

Without the song, without distraction, he was once again struck by the fact that you were alive. After everything that had happened, the multiple sources that had confirmed that nobody from his former class had survived, it was unbelievable. But he didn’t dare doubt his own mental faculties, he couldn’t allow himself to believe that this was a trick of his brain. You were alive. You, a woman so different from the girl of the academy. The twinkle in your eyes had long gone dull, the blush on your cheeks applied with a brush. Gone was the reckless way you moved, the subtle grace in your movements creating the image of someone caught in a perpetual dance. There was a curl to your shoulders, a reservation in the way you met his eye. You smiled at him, but it wasn’t the unafraid grin of a girl ready to face the world without hesitation. Not to say you didn’t have a certain type of allure now. War hadn’t managed to mar your beauty. All the same, Felix looked at you and saw the cruel marks of pain, of someone tainted by their association with the terrible world. That thought was sour for reasons he didn’t care to analyze.

“It’s been a while,” you finally said, breaking the silence. “I’m… Shocked to see you. But not unhappy! I’m glad you’re still alive. I heard you left your territory.”

“I did,” Felix responded neutrally, trying to read your expression for any hint of hatred, of disgust. He doubted that you could possibly be happy he was alive. He had betrayed you. He was responsible for the murder of the people you loved most. But you looked at him and your smile wasn’t easy and reckless, but it was there and it was nearly transparently nervous. Even shy, if he wasn’t mistaken.

“You’ve been keeping busy?” you asked.

Felix thought about that question longer than the first, considering what it meant to be busy. He was constantly moving, traveling around the place formerly known as Faerghus with his sword, doing his duty as the sole survivor and putting down rebellions where they came. Snuffing out the flame the boar had recklessly left when he died. But was that busy? The last time he’d been in Enbarr, Felix had bested Byleth in every single fight. His strength was peerless, none could rival him now. Every fight he engaged in had a single conclusion. There was no challenge, there was nothing but inevitability and the thirst for something more, something that would occupy him in any meaningful way. He shrugged. “I suppose.”

His curt answer made you frown. Felix could read your hesitation in the way you bit your lip, your fingers fluttering with some unknown rhythm. “You haven’t really changed, have you?” you asked, trying very hard to keep your smile casual.

No, he hadn’t changed. He didn’t change. Seasons changed, other people changed, but Felix did not. “Are you disappointed?” he asked.

Your eyes widened and you shook your head. “No, not at all! It’s just that you’re kinda tough to read. You’ve always been, but... ” You let out a puff of air and, as if to steady yourself, crossed your legs to make a rest for your elbows. It seemed mostly unintentional, an effort to force yourself to stop fidgeting, but your bodice was low cut enough to give him a rather distracting view of the other ways you’d grown. Felix wasn’t sure if the fact that he noticed made him more irritated at you or himself. “Aren’t you at least a little bit shocked to see me, too?” you asked, the words coming out in a rush. “Everyone says I’m dead, you know.”

“So I’ve heard,” Felix responded, forcing his eyes up, to meet yours. “How _did_ you survive?”

Somehow, that question eased the tension in your shoulders. Because you’d been waiting for it or because you were pleased that he was finally engaging? Either way, your smile had changed. It was melancholy but it was honest, free of the hatred that he so expected and the forced cheer from before. It was beautiful. Vulnerable and ruined, but beautiful. “I guess that is the question of the century,” you said, looking down. “But you should know, it’s not a very interesting story.”

“Tell me.”

At first, he thought that you weren’t going to say anything, the silence stretching on while you kept your face down. But, finally, your shoulders moved with a deep breath. “During the battle on the Tailtean Plains,” you said, your eyes fixed solidly on the floor, “I was injured. Badly. I hit my head a-and everything went black.” You paused, taking another deep, steadying breath. “Anyway, I was knocked out completely. The Church saved me when they retreated to Fhirdiad, but I didn’t wake up. A family friend, the landlord here, took me out of the city before the fighting started.” Your hands fisted in your lap, your voice lowering to an almost inaudible degree. “I was asleep for almost three moons. When I woke up…”

“The Kingdom had fallen,” Felix said flatly. “And everyone was dead.”

You recoiled, your shoulders curling inward. “Something like that.”

It wasn’t his fault. Felix knew he wasn’t responsible for what the boar had done. He didn’t owe that creature anything, even if it meant that he would turn his blade on his country. If the others didn’t want to die for a mad king and corrupt religion, they should have done the smart thing and left as he did. They weren’t victims, they chose their fate. But he could see the unsteadiness of your breath in your shoulders and he knew you were hiding your face because you were on the verge of tears and felt the weight of doubt crushing him. It was an old feeling, the scar of a wound that had never really healed. Not since Glenn.

“Are you here for work?” you asked after a moment, your voice wavering, but not cracked. The abrupt shift in the conversation caught Felix by surprise, but he was glad for it. Those memories never led anywhere good.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“After you left Fraldarius territory,” you said, “What you do now, suppressing rebellions in Faerghus for the… the Empire. I heard them talking… Er, I mean, that’s what everybody says.”

“I’m sure they say a lot of things about me,” Felix said, narrowing his eyes at the tone of your voice and his sudden understanding of the implications in your question.

“Yeah,” you agreed softly.

He wondered what you had heard. The scorn was endless, the names generally quite unoriginal. The opinions of people too stupid to think beyond their anger or heartache didn’t matter to Felix. He didn’t care about anything. Or anyone for that matter. He really didn’t care about what you thought of him. But the idea of _you_ thinking those things, judging him or scorning him without any attempt to understand... Felix didn’t care, but thinking about that made him mad. The anger, he knew, was misplaced. But it felt a lot better than anything else he could be feeling.

“Damn fools, the lot of them,” he said. “I’m doing a favor for the men who call themselves loyalists. Nothing good will come out of fighting the Empire.”

“It worked once,” you said.

“The time for proving themselves is over,” Felix told you, his voice nakedly scornful. “They’ve _lost_. It’s time for everyone to move on and adapt, to find a way to move forward and stop letting the past dictate their lives.”

_Like you did?_ A voice in his head asked sarcastically. Mocking him.

You didn’t fight like he expected you to. Like Felix wanted you to. “You’re probably right about that,” you said, a pitiful sense of defeat in your voice. That hadn’t changed. You never had been one for confrontation, always trying to keep the peace.

“That’s it?” he asked.

You looked up at him. Your eyes were red, tears clinging to the lashes you’d coated with mascara. “What else?” you asked. “I don’t think they’re foolish for wishing for something better, but I don’t hate you for doing what you do, either. I’ve never blamed you, Felix.”

Just like that, Felix’s anger fizzled out against the wall of your sincerity. It was surreal. He had betrayed you. He had been complicit or active in the murder of everyone you loved. And now he was castigating you for something he knew wasn’t your fault. And still, that was all you could say.

You looked beyond pathetic. Stupid, reckless, hopeless.

And yet, your wet eyes cut into his heart. He had cared about you once. Cared about you so much that it had been a tangible sensation, an annoying thump in his heart and an ache in his chest when it didn’t turn out. Of course it hadn’t turned out. It never would have worked. Felix realized too late that your heart had never actually been his to want and at the time he told himself that he could hate you for it because you were a damn fool just like the others, but that wasn’t and never had been true.

How could Felix really, truly hate you when you had done what he should have? When you stood in his place when he left?

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, tugging his focus back into reality.

“Nothing,” Felix said before the question had even fully registered in his mind. His voice was sharp, the response coming out too quickly to be anything other than a hasty rejection of those memories.

You didn’t respond. Then again, you didn’t need to say anything for him to see how hard you were trying to scrutinize him, clearly worried. That frown, the way your eyebrows were furrowed, the way your eyes caught the lamplight. The heavy silence that neither of you filled.

Finding himself unable to bear your concerned pout a second longer, Felix looked down at the glass of mead he had nearly forgotten about, distracting himself with a sip. It could have been poisoned, but he didn’t really care. The drink was colored like honey and just as sweet, spiced in a way that overwhelmed the bite of alcohol completely, filling his mouth and nose and stomach with its cloyingly sugary flavor. Foul. He swallowed the rest of it, focusing on the telltale burn of liquor. Felix didn’t drink often. For the most part, his reasoning was self explanatory and utilitarian. In his line of work, it was imperative to keep his wits about him at all times. A quiet piece of his head knew the other reason, something he would never acknowledge. But Felix knew. He didn’t deserve to have his thoughts soothed with intoxication, he had stripped himself of the luxury of mental ignorance long ago.

“Your eyes look like his, you know,” you said softly, either as a means to draw him back into the conversation or out of a fear of the silence.

“Who?” Felix asked with an imperious lift of his chin, his voice hard and cold to stop any emotion from leaking through.

“Dimitri,” you responded.

Coming from your lips, the name —a name he never wanted to hear again— was soft and filled with an intimate adoration, a hollow ache of melancholy. Just like that, Felix could remember the way you looked at the boar all those years ago with affectionate eyes. He remembered the ember of anger and disgust that burned him inside when he saw you stare at a beast in such a way, the suffocating affliction he dared not name jealousy.

More than that, and it was always so much more than just that, Felix remembered the smiling face of a young boy with golden hair and blue eyes, laughing in delight as he sparred with Glenn. He remembered a blood stained face, grinning a macabre smile as he slaughtered men without a shred of humanity. And he remembered a body lying still in the rain, a pair of empty blue eyes staring sightlessly into a cloudy sky. Felix’s chest constricted, physically rejecting those vivid memories, unable to keep himself from recoiling. For a second, he could barely remember how to breathe.

“I can almost count the ghosts I see in your eyes,” you continued, blind to his reaction. “He was always so tortured by them. That’s why he...” You paused, took a breath. “You look a lot like he did before… I don’t want to overstep but, Felix... You don’t look like you’re doing okay.”

Felix wanted to throw up, to void his body of the sweet, sweet mead in a desperate attempt to purge the memories as well. He’d seen it in the mirror, of course, on the rare occasion when he could stand to look at himself. The empty, hollow haunting that took place behind his shadowed eyes. His were amber rather than blue, but there was no mistaking what lurked beneath. The mark of the beast, shifted to him in the battle where he fought so hard to remove its scourge. But it was nameless, formless, a despair he could ignore so long as he kept moving, kept fighting, kept running. He told himself he wasn’t running away, but whenever the past nipped too close to his heels, he left.

“I’m fine,” he told you, his teeth clenched.

“Felix,” you said slowly, gently, “if you’re hurting, you shouldn’t be alone. If you talk about it, maybe-”

“I said I’m fine,” he insisted, turning his glare on you. Your eyes were wide, searching, pleading. He winced, looking away. “Spare me your pity. It’s revolting.”

You flinched, staring at him like you could see his pain, like you felt bad for him. Like you could see past his anger and his pretense and the stony mask he had so carefully created to hide the agony of loss. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Shut up,” he snapped. “And stop looking at me like that. You’re making me sick.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” you said, trying so desperately to placate him. Felix hated it. He hated the softness of your voice, the fact that you could see right through him. He hated that you were trying to soothe his anger even after he attacked you with words that were deliberately meant to hurt. He hated that you didn’t rise to meet his growing rage, that your eyes were wide and vulnerable and trying so desperately to convey your feelings.

The loathing was so urgent, so tangible that he could nearly imagine that if someone were to crack open his ribs right then, they’d see the black poison welling in the cavity where his heart should have been. It choked him, seeping up his throat and into his head like a disease, more intoxicating than any alcohol and more agonizing than any wound.

“I’m not offended, I’m nauseous,” Felix said. But that wasn’t enough, not nearly enough to satiate the cruel part of himself that _needed_ to hurt you as you did him. He knew what he was doing —he’d always had a knack for hurting people where it mattered— and he was going to do it anyway, speaking with deliberate malice. “I am nothing like that boar. He’s _dead_ , put down like the feral beast he was. Just because you had a pathetic crush on him doesn’t mean you get to project the dead onto the living. I’m not a substitute for someone else, especially not someone who was too weak to live.”

Blood rose in your face, your expression going slack with genuine pain. You looked surprised, like he’d hit you, like he’d done something so unforgivably shocking you couldn’t believe it. In those tense moments of aftermath, Felix hated himself for hurting you, for saying those things. He hated that he wanted to. But he always hated himself, at least you were giving him a good reason.

Finally, your expression composed itself. Finally, he saw a shred of the fight he wanted, an indication that you were going to lash out just like him. A terrible, gnarled part of him anticipated it, looked forward to it, _wanted_ you to pick this fight.

But your voice was empathetic and determined and you weren’t looking at him like he deserved, weren’t glaring at him with fire in your eyes and bared teeth. “You love him, too,” you said, your jaw set and hands clenched, the accusation coming out in a nearly childish way.

There was a delay of a few heartbeats between you speaking and Felix’s comprehension of what you had said. It stole him a few seconds of suspended time so he could parse that each individual syllable you spoke created words. That word, love, was wrong. It was _loved_. Past tense. Dimitri was dead, Felix had seen his fallen corpse for himself. Another rapid thump of his heart passed and those words became a sentence. Another, and the sentence was given meaning. And then the moments of stolen time demanded to be paid back in full, compounding the intensity of the storm.

A shaky burst of rage nearly knocked Felix over, the edges of his vision dyed in angry, angry scarlet. It tasted like blood. A combative snarl left his mouth as he jumped to his feet, propelled by the instinctual inertia of emotion so gutturally intense, so wickedly hot. Felix was seething, choking on the rage and it was too late to stop. He could hate himself all he wanted, but right then, he could convince himself that he hated you more. Felix’s hands were shaking by the time he realized he’d fisted them in the front of your bodice, dragging you up off the bed so he could hold you at eye level. And you fought him in this pathetic, half-hearted scramble, your eyes wide and filled with tears and wounded as if he had somehow betrayed you.

Like _he_ had betrayed _you_. A mad, senseless part of his mind laughed at that.

“The only thing I ever felt for the boar was disgust and hatred,” he growled, his voice smooth, seemingly coming from another man’s mouth. “So don’t act like you know anything. You don’t.”

Felix wanted you to hit him, to attack him and validate the violence thrumming through his veins. But you didn’t. You didn’t, you just continued to look at him with those too-perceptive eyes that glittered with tears and he thought that you had changed, that the world had broken you, but it hadn’t. Even now, you were the same. Afraid, cautious, but so desperate to know and understand and care for the people around you. Through the war and through the suffering and through the pain Felix knew you had endured, you had maintained some integral piece of self that he had lost so long ago. He had hated you all those years back for having something agony had stripped from him, for being innocent, and he told himself that it was because life had been kind to you, that you didn’t know its cruelty. But if that was the case, why hadn’t that changed? After everything you had been through, _why weren’t you like him?_

“If that’s all you ever felt,” you said, “why are you crying?” You raised your hand to his face, your thumb grazing his cheek. The pad of it was calloused from the strings and warm as it spread the tear thin across his cheekbone.

Strength was strength and Felix was stronger than anyone, but he met your eyes and felt the air cool the tear on his skin and he felt the excruciating weakness of deficiency. He hated it. Hated you. Hated himself.

Weak, too weak. Always too weak.

“Shut up,” he said, knocking your hand away. “I’m not. That’s… You’re just… You’re wrong. You’re dead wrong, okay?”

Dead and wrong. His heart was beating too fast, his breathing rapid in a way even battle couldn’t coax out of him.

“Okay,” you agreed in a small voice.

_That’s it?_ Felix wanted to ask that, to demand more, to force you to meet the challenge on his terms. He wanted to leave, to stalk out of the room and leave the inn and disappear into the night and run far, far away from these memories. 

But he didn’t. As the seconds ticked on, Felix began to really see the fear in your eyes. He’d seen enough frightened eyes to know exactly what they looked like. Guilt sliced through him like a blade at the sight. That didn’t help the anger, but it was enough for him to know he had to calm down.

Felix closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. For some reason, your hand returned to his face, your fingers brushing his cheek. This time, he didn’t have the strength to push it away, leaning into the touch ever so slightly. If he said sorry, would you believe him? If he asked for you to forgive him, would you? If he left, would he forget you?

Did he care?

“Felix,” you said, your voice gentle around his name in a way it had no right to be. Before tonight, how long had it been since anybody called him by his name? None in a voice like yours, so achingly familiar, enticing.

He opened his eyes. You were close. And warm. And it was you. Despite everything, it was still you.

Felix didn’t mean to kiss you, not any more than he had directly intended to lunge at you. It was a redirection of all of his sadness, all of his rage. It became desperation, it became the need for something more because the smell of you was filling his nose and your warmth seeped into his skin and Felix felt the choking absence of connection more starkly than he had in a while. It was hollow and cold and restless.

And you were willing.

That was, perhaps, the worst of it all. You should have been pushing him away, kicking him out of the cold and out of your life. You should have hated him, blamed him for everything that was and wasn’t his fault because he deserved that. At the very least, you should have fought him for practically assaulting you. But your lips parted to his and your mouth was sweet in a way Felix didn’t mind. He felt the vibration of a happy sound you made when he wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you closer, your arms tight around his shoulders for stability.

Felix had never been great at reading people, but as he kissed you, he finally understood you. He could practically _feel_ the reason why you didn’t hate him, why you let him kiss you. Because you were weak, because you wanted the connection just as badly as he did. Because you were so desperate to be known as you were that even being hurt was better than being alone.

“Felix...” you said breathlessly as you pulled away, clearly flustered. That was a good distraction from his thoughts. He liked hearing his name in your voice. He liked the way you looked right then, your red lips parted and your chest rising and falling rapidly against his own. People often misinterpreted his stoic mask as a lack of interest. Just because he was better at concealing his desires than the boorish men who salivated at the mere idea of a woman’s touch didn’t mean he wasn’t affected. “What are you doing?”

He met your eyes. Wide and confused and uncertain, looking up at him in search of answers he didn’t have. It was obvious what he was doing. Taking advantage of you. It was why that truly eluded him. But he didn’t know why. You deserved an answer, well, you deserved a lot more than that, but he couldn’t provide.

“This is why you invited me up here, isn’t it?” Felix finally responded.

It was an evasive response, a shallow justification for his desperate self destruction and cruelty, but you seemed to accept it. Felix really hated that, hated that you would allow this when both of you should have been able to give you better. But he kissed you again all the same, drinking in your lips, the scent of your skin, the warmth of your body like he was a man possessed. He didn’t usually indulge in kissing during the scattered nights he’d spent with other women, but this was different. Instinctual, driven by the cloud of sickening emotions he so despised and rejected.

This was wrong. A part of him continued to wish so badly that you would stop him. But you didn’t. You clung to him and traced your tongue across his lip and returned the kiss with a passion he didn’t expect.

This was wrong. He was taking something that was never meant for him. What never was, what never could be. But Felix liked the way you melted into him. He could feel his cock twitch in response to your little gasp when he bit your bottom lip. He’d feel guilty afterward, but what did that matter? He’d never be given absolution regardless. Felix wasn’t even sure if he believed in such a convenience.

“You’re not mad?” you asked, ducking out of the kiss, your lips wet and cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. And he felt something in his chest crack because of course he was, even now. Couldn’t you tell? Couldn’t you see his rage, his despair, his pain, his everything laid out like exposed nerves beneath the skin you had so expertly flayed? And that, all of that, filtered down into the easiest emotion of them all, anger. Felix wasn’t sure if he ever stopped being angry anymore. But lust... He could feel lust, too. He didn’t know how much they had to do with one another and didn’t care to think about it too hard. Felix had enough reasons to be disgusted with himself. “Because I am sorry. I didn’t think that-”

“Find something more interesting to do with your mouth if all you’re going to do is say stupid things,” Felix said, cutting you off. “I’m not interested.” That was cruel, he knew that. Most of the girls he’d been with probably wouldn’t have accepted being treated in such a way. You shouldn’t have accepted it, either.

But you did, taking his words as an innuendo he wasn’t entirely sure had been on purpose. “You want me to…” you said, the implicative words trailing off in a curious way.

Guilt pulsed in Felix’s stomach and he looked away. “No, I didn’t mean-” he began, only to cut himself off because that was a lie. He sighed, frustrated and disgusted by himself. Of course he wanted you to, but that was taking it too far and he was meant to have at least a scrap of self control. Enough to stop this before it got too far. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to,” you said, wiggling out of his grasp. “Sit down.”

He grabbed your wrist. “Wait.” You paused in response to his touch, your head falling to the side with curiosity. “Why?” Felix asked.

“This is why I invited you up here,” you said, repeating his earlier response in a soft voice that lacked the irony it so deserved but Felix only had so much in him to deny you that because his rough hands had shifted your top quite a bit downward and his body felt cold without the yielding warmth of yours and he was only human. Weak and human. Moving before his thoughts caught up with his body, Felix sat on the edge of the bed. You didn’t bother with any preamble, dropping to your knees at his feet.

He should have stopped you. He should have been strong enough to leave. But Felix _liked_ the way you looked kneeling between his legs, giving him a good angle to admire your cleavage, the focused, almost determined way you reached to get at his belt. Your hands weren’t pretty in the sense that they were manicured or painted, but they were strong and deft, your fingers clever as they undid the buckle and button of his trousers.

It seemed like you knew what you were doing. Seeing that brought an intrusive thought to mind, something terrible to consider, but Felix wondered if you’d ever done this for Him. Or maybe things had changed after Felix joined Edelgard and Byleth. Five years was a long time. It could have been any of them, Sylvain, Ashe, Dedue. Or none of them, maybe you were in the business of casual sex, accepting that you’d never find someone to ease that vacancy in your soul that the war had gouged out. Felix didn’t know which was preferable, which one made him feel less disgusted. Or less guilty.

His head cleared as you got him to shift his hips to pull his trousers and underwear down together. He was only about half hard but when you reached up to touch him with a soft, dexterous hand Felix knew it wouldn’t really take much. It had been a while. And it was you, watching him with interested eyes ringed with makeup smeared by tears he’d caused.

“Is this okay?” you asked, looking up at him with a paradoxically innocent gaze when compared to the way your hand was stroking him. Root to tip, slow and steady. Those clever, strong fingers wrapped around his cock, your sweetly familiar eyes looking up at him, the peek of your pink tongue dashing against your lip, each of your excited breaths pushing your breasts against the front of your bodice. No, this was not okay. Nothing about this was okay but he was hard and you were gorgeous and he didn’t think he’d ever wanted anyone like this.

Felix cleared his throat before responding, having to look away for a second to collect himself somewhat. “Yea- _fuck_ ,” he hissed when you ducked down to lick the swollen head. That curse seemed to spur you on, flattening your tongue to lick a wide stripe along the bottom before closing your lips around the tip. Felix had to ball his fists in the sheets to not rush you. After everything else he’d done, he could at least try to be patient.

Your eyes closed as you took more of him into your mouth, spreading your saliva so you could work the base in tandem with each bob of your head. He was glad for that. Felix wasn’t sure if he could handle you seeing him like this, his entire body rigidly taut so as to not thrust into your mouth or take fistfuls of your hair to pull you down all the way, his cheeks flushed with raw need.

When you got a steady rhythm going, you began to flick your tongue along the underside, creating terribly lewd wet sounds as you suctioned your cheeks hollow to suck as you pulled back. Felix tried to keep his teeth clenched to stay quiet, but the warm, wet, soft caress of your mouth as your head bobbed between his legs made that a losing battle. He moaned, a choked back groan of a sound. You responded in kind, working his cock with even more enthusiasm.

Something like lust-stained understanding connected in his head. “L-like that,” Felix said, ignoring the impulse to try and keep his reactions contained. “Don’t stop.” You groaned again, he could feel the vibrations of it, and began to take him even deeper into your mouth. Unthinkingly, Felix dropped a hand into your hair, your name slipping from his mouth without thought. You liked that even more, making another deep, vibrating sound.

The sounds you made as you sucked him off were wet and vulgar, saliva dripping down your chin and coating his cock. Felix was pretty sure he was worse, unable to keep his reactions silent, helplessly gasping in pleasure. Every time he said your name, you reacted. Rewarding him by taking him deeper, picking up the pace, torturing him with your tongue.

Felix’s other hand dropped onto your head, his fingers finding purchase in your hair. The first time he pulled you all the way down, you choked a bit, recoiling. He swore, letting you pull off all the way.

“Sorry…” Felix said.

There were more tears gathered in your eyes and your mouth and chin were dripping, your cheeks flushed, your expression glazed with obvious arousal. “Jus-just surprised me,” you said. “But I can…” Distracted, you wiped your face with the back of your hand, appraising his cock with another endearing look of determination before closing your lips back around the head and moving down. All the way down. Felix gasped sharply, whatever words he’d intended to say disappearing from his mind at the velvety sensation. The sight of you taking him all the way was almost enough to lose it, let alone the way you so obediently relaxed when his cock bumped the back of your throat.

Felix swore again, his hands twisting back up in your hair. He said your name as you pulled back and that seemed like the right thing because you threw yourself back into getting a rhythm, this time allowing Felix to guide you.

He tried to be gentle —you deserved to have someone who was gentle— but he knew he wasn’t. Despite that, you were taking everything he gave you, practically letting him fuck your mouth in what Felix knew was little more than a frenzied rut. His desperation only got more intense as he got closer to coming, the pressure building fast. He didn’t want to savor this anymore, he didn’t want to think. He just wanted to feel it. To luxuriate in the velvet of your mouth on his cock, the teasing brush of your tongue, the vulgar pleasure of how you relaxed so he could hit the back of your throat.

One of your hands settled on his thigh and he liked that, feeling an electric charge of extra stimulation against the sensitive skin there. The other snuck down to gently play with his balls and he liked that even more, his hips jerking forward. You moaned, the sound vibrating against him in an intoxicating way.

After that, he really couldn’t take much more. Felix was being far rougher than he had any right to be with you, saying your name over and over because it made you react, because it made it better for him. At the very least, he had the wherewithal to warn you before he came, gasping out the words mindlessly. And then his body drew taut like the string of a bow, pressure building to a breaking point until release hit him. Felix came, his hips snapping forward and fingers digging harshly into your hair. Your throat worked around him, both of your hands gripping his thighs for stability as he worked shallow thrusts as far back as he could. It was good, far more intense than any orgasms he’d had in memory. Maybe it was because it had been too long. Or maybe it was because it was you, swallowing his cum without question.

When it was over, he pulled out to let you collect yourself, his breathing unsteady and harsh. Felix had never gotten undressed, and his jacket felt constrictive and hot, uncomfortable. He didn’t say anything, pressing a hand to his flushed face as he tried to make his thoughts focus past the high of climax.

“Felix?” you asked softly, curiously. He sighed shakily, looking back down at you. Your pupils were blown wide, your lips wet, saliva and cum dripping down your chin. The image was beyond obscene and he was a terrible, terrible man for letting things go this far. That had been good —the aftershocks of pleasure were still tingling through him, enough to pull a singular shiver down his spine— but...

“Take off your clothes,” Felix said, his voice husky.

You blinked, your eyes still a bit hazy. “Why?”

Felix hesitated. The strange innocence and trust you looked at him with drew his focus away from the way you were kneeling before him and your wet, red lips and onto the person to which those things belonged.

It mentally conjured a perfectly maintained image, one he hadn’t thought about in a long time. Those gentle eyes of yours focused on him intently as you studied his swordplay, the warmth of your body as he tried to fix your own stances. When you turned to him, he had wanted to kiss you so badly it frightened him. He wanted you to be his first, to be your first. Felix didn’t care about things like that, but right then, half mad with the hormonal urges of a teenager, he liked the sound of it well enough. Instead, he had left, mumbling some excuse or another.

After that, the only person you had eyes for was _Him_.

Felix sighed, almost a growl, rubbing his palm over his face. Now that he’d gotten off and was free from the all-consuming desperation for pleasure, those memories filled him with a bone-deep sickness of guilt and anger and regret, a reminder of how absolutely abhorrent this situation was. He needed to stop, to leave, to run away and never look back.

“I guess that was a pretty dumb question,” you said when he didn’t answer, standing up. Felix knew he should have stopped you, but instead he just watched as you undid the ties of your bodice, released the clasps of your skirt so it could drop at your feet. Most of the women he’d been with had been bold. Not you, teasing the edges of your underwear with an uncertain touch, peeking up at him from beneath your eyelashes. Maybe he’d been wrong about your habits, you certainly didn’t possess any of the charms men would normally want from casual interactions. But he didn’t mind. Beneath all of your clothes, you were exactly as flimsy as you’d felt when he picked you up, when he held you. But you were soft, too, not made solid with muscle or scrawny from starvation. No, you were downright cute. Fragile, in a way.

It did something for him.

No. It did _a lot_ for him.

Felix was fit and young, his body was more than capable of rising to the challenge of going again. The intensity of this fresh lust was unexpected, crashing into him in a way arousal usually didn’t. The cute, demure act brought to light urges Felix knew were better left suppressed and ignored.

But it was you, finally you, and this would never happen again. He’d never see you again. He’d fuck you, the last remnants of the friends from his other life, and it would be the final of his murderous betrayals. After this, there would be nothing left of his old self but ash, no more reminders of the life he might have had in a different, kinder world. These justifications were just as disgusting as the others, but it worked.

He undressed. Usually, he wouldn’t, but he wanted to make this one to remember. If he couldn’t be your first, maybe he could settle for being the best. You were still wearing the underwear, not even pretending like you weren’t ogling him. Scarred and marked from the hard life he lived, Felix knew his body wasn’t appealing in a purely aesthetic way. But he wasn’t self-conscious enough to deny the reality that he was still the best you could get in a town like this. That thought wasn’t particularly pleasing. He was the best because you only had the worst.

Felix raised an eyebrow, pointedly looking at the clothes you were still wearing. He entertained the idea of ripping them off of you, but the arousal that came with that thought was nearly overwhelming. It was the violence of it that appealed to him, that disgusted him. For rejecting him, for hurting him, for not choosing him, for accepting him —Felix wanted to ravish you, to see you undone completely, intimately and claim his piece of your broken self.

“I did mean all of them,” he said, surprised at how collected he sounded.

“Right...” you mumbled. And it was like you had no idea of the danger he presented to you. Like there was some aspect of this situation that was normal or healthy. You blushed and licked your lips and took off your underwear in a fast, artless way. Like you were trying to do it before you lost nerve, revealing to him the blush staining your skin, the awkwardly hopeful way you shifted, unsure if you wanted to hide or be displayed. The curve of your breasts, your nipples hardened to the cooler air. The gentle indent of your waist to the flare of your hips, your soft thighs, pressed together in a way he could pretty easily guess the reason for. For a second, Felix very badly wanted to be gentle, as loving as he could manage. He wanted to map your skin with his lips and hold you, to imagine a world where he’d kissed you on that day in the training grounds. The sensation was aching and melancholy, swelling up in his throat.

Then the second passed. His hands were too scarred to hold you, his mouth dripping poison. The past was the past, indelible and unforgettable.

“Come here,” Felix said, gesturing for you to get on the bed. He didn’t really have a plan, no idea what he really wanted to do. He wanted to hear you say his name, to beg him, to need him absolutely. That would be good enough.

“How should I...” you asked, approaching uncertainly. “What do you...” Felix didn’t respond to your trailing questions, grabbing you by the hips to pull you down and more or less in the center of the bed on your back. You made a sound halfway between a squeak and a cry that was far more adorable than it had any right to be.

“If I do something you don’t like, tell me,” Felix said. Too little too late, he knew that.

“Oh-kay,” you breathed, your gaze averted. Felix frowned, saying your name. That got your attention, allowing him to see your reaction in full. Wide eyes met his, a sharp inhale passing through your blushed lips. At the same time, his hand dipped between your legs, seeking your heat. Which, considering how aroused you were, wasn’t at all a challenge. You made a choked sound, your thighs clenching around his hand.

“You’re wet,” he said, surprised. Wet was probably an understatement. As he slid his fingers through your slick folds, Felix figured that drenched was a more appropriate description. You squirmed, one of your hands lowering to grab his wrist.

“Sorry.”

“Out of curiosity,” Felix said, brushing past your stupid apology. “What was it specifically that you liked?”

You couldn’t meet his eye, reacting far more than he might have thought as he rubbed slow circles around your clit.

“Making you f-feel…” your voice trailed off in favor of turning your head away, giving up on moving his hand from between your legs and covering your face. “Stop,” you whined.

“You really want me to stop?” Felix clarified, pulling his hand away.

You let out a heavy breath, almost a whine, shaking your head again. “No.” The pouty tone of your voice was oddly endearing. He could have pushed you to answer his question, but he was pretty sure he understood. Considering your infuriatingly passive personality and everything else you had allowed to happen tonight, it really shouldn’t have surprised him that you’d be turned on by giving. It did nothing for his guilt, though. You really deserved so much better.

Felix sighed. “Spread your legs.”

“Why?”

“Why do you _think_?” he snapped. A moment later, he sighed again. “Look, if you want to stop-”

“No,” you said, your legs opening with the word. Gratification at the instant reaction filled him, mixing with the guilt of leveraging your lust as a threat to make you pliant. Anyone would be able to tell that you were uncomfortable and nervous and that should have been enough for Felix to stop, but you were saying yes. And like this, naked and exposed for him, you were doing more than just saying yes.

Rather than let himself become distanced with those thoughts, Felix distracted himself with your body. So _soft,_ your skin yielding to his touch, his fingers digging indents into your waist, your hips, your thighs. You deserved to be savored, to be enjoyed piece by piece until you unraveled completely. You deserved much more than that, really. But instead you had him, and Felix wasn’t sure he even knew how to give you that.

“W-wait!” you said as he moved down.

“What is it now?”

You bit your lip nervously, weighing his reaction cautiously. Was he that bad? “Will you take your hair down?” you asked. Felix forced himself to relax, pushing down the instinct to reject the request on principle.

“It’ll just get in the way,” he said.

“Please?” you asked.

Felix couldn’t think of a way to say no, so he complied, reaching up to pull the clip out and shaking his head to get his hair loose. It had gotten long again, the tips of the longest sections curling against his shoulders. Annoying.

“Beautiful,” you mumbled dreamily, smiling at him. Felix shivered, looking away from your expression. It was too soft. Adoring, almost. Familiar. It was not meant for him, not now and certainly not like this. “Are you… embarrassed?” you asked when he didn’t reply.

Felix’s eyes snapped up to yours. “No. Just-” he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his face. “Just don’t say things like that, okay? This isn’t like that.”

“I... understand,” you said, having the gall to sound discouraged by the fact. It made him feel bad. Which was ridiculous. That’s where you drew the line with his behavior?

He heaved a heavy breath, pushing your thighs even further apart to make room so he could position himself in between them. He had never felt actively opposed to giving oral if his partner wanted him to. Usually it was to pay back the favor. Was that what this was? Transactional?

Your breath hitched in anticipation with the shift in position, but you didn’t complain. A cute sound, as subtle as it was.

No, this wasn’t transactional. Not when Felix could smell you, heady and musky and hot, and couldn't help himself from wanting more. Not when he could see how aroused you were, how ready you were for him, and had to force himself to maintain some composure. You let out a choked kind of squeak when Felix pushed a finger into you without warning, your thighs clamping down around him. 

“Felix,” you said, your voice high pitched and unsteady. Your hands fisted in the sheets on either side of you rather than going to his hair. Your thighs trembling as you forced them back open to give him space. He wondered who had taught you etiquette like that, then winced at any potential answer.

Better not to think at all.

You moaned in earnest when he pulled his finger out to add another, curling them upward to press against your tightening inner walls. It was hot, both the feeling of you around his fingers and the sound. Experimentally, Felix dragged his tongue up your clit. That elicited a full body tremor, his name coming out in broken fragments from your lips. You weren’t looking at him, your eyes were squeezed shut. Felix wanted you to, but at the same time, he was glad to be free of your pretty, piercing stare right then. 

You didn’t seem to mind that he set a fast pace right from the start, his fingers delving into you with ease considering how wet you were, his tongue tracing patterns on your feverish flesh. He had a feeling it wouldn’t take long for you to come.

When he added a third finger, your entire body jolted _hard_ , your inner walls squeezing him like a vice. “Felix, _please_ ,” you moaned, practically whined. “Doh-don’t s-stop, pl-ease.” That sound sent a flash of intense heat straight to his dick and he groaned against you, caught between wanting to do as you said and give up and simply fuck you. But you deserved this attention. After everything, it was the least he could do.

Felix wondered how long it had been since the last time you’d been touched like this. It had to have been a while with as tight and _sensitive_ you were, responding to every swipe of his tongue or curl of his fingers. He doubled down, doing everything, anything, that got you to shake, to moan, to say his name.

“Fe-lix… feels s-so…” You didn’t finish that sentiment, the words falling off in a gasping cry, your fingers tearing at the sheets for stability. He had to put his forearm across your pelvis to keep your overeager hips from jumping off the bed.

“You’re so _good,_ ” you told him, your voice fevered and breathless. Heat shot straight to Felix’s groin at the praise. He mercilessly worked his fingers against your g-spot and you cried out, almost a sob-like sound. “Oh, _goddess_... Felix, I’m-” His tongue focused entirely on your swollen clit, each thrust of his fingers creating a slick squish from how wet you had become. You were close, your thighs trembling and twitching as you tried to keep them open, your body tense beneath him. The sounds you made were his favorite, Felix chased them with abandon. Amidst the moans and the hitching breaths, you said his name like a prayer. Lust was like adoration. Need was almost reverence. “Felix, I can’t... I-”

“Come for me,” he said and he doubted you could hear him, but you did what you were told to do anyway. You came _hard_. Your pussy spasmed around his fingers, your immobilized hips trying to meet each thrust. He lapped at your fevered skin, closed his lips around your swollen clit to draw it out as long as he could. You moaned like a whore but said his name so sweetly and he _liked_ that.

When you began trembling and shying away from his touch, Felix pulled away, pulling his fingers out of you with an obscenely wet sound. He licked his lips and sat back to admire his handwork. Flushed and trembling and messy and beautiful, your chest heaving and sweat glazing your skin. He was distractingly turned on by the sight, by the sound, his body desperate to feel yours.

It was more than that. Felix knew the feeling and it wasn’t just the desire. Even here, those thoughts chased him. What was, what wasn’t, what he could never have. He ignored them.

“You’re, uh,” you said, your voice breathless. “That was… super… wow. Thank you, Felix.”

The praise, even given in the most awkward way possible, made him inhale sharply.

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he said, distracting himself from his reaction by nudging your thighs further apart, the hand he’d used to finger you dropping to stroke himself. “I wouldn’t have done it unless I got something out of it, too.”

“Mmm,” you hummed, unconcerned with his gruff response and inviting him closer by opening your legs. Felix swore internally, equally impressed and annoyed about how easily you riled him up.

When he ran the tip of his cock over your slick folds, you reacted nearly as strongly as he did, your mouth falling open and hips jumping to find more friction. Felix wanted more too. He felt the need to take you so strongly, so intensely, that his self control nearly entirely crumbled right then and there. But he closed his eyes, trying to count to ten, to think of something else, to distract himself from you in literally any way he could. Because he had to. Felix was a terrible, reprehensible man and he’d done countless unforgivable things but you were beautiful and vulnerable and-

“Are you sure this is okay?” he asked through gritted teeth, his muscles coiled tight to keep himself still.

“Felix, please,” you begged, drawing out the word with a whine. “I want to… Feel you inside of me… Please?” The broken need in your voice was more than he could possibly take. He could even tell himself that he was doing you a kindness by complying.

Felix pushed into you with a movement that was definitely too rough, making you gasp sharply. It must have been a long time since you were with anyone. You were so _tight_ , your inner muscles gripping his cock as he slid in to the hilt. He might have felt guilty if his entire mind wasn’t shorted out, focused with an absolute concentration on the way you felt around him, beneath him.

“F-fuck,” Felix swore in a low voice, falling to his elbows over you. It took everything he had to keep from giving in to the impulse that demanded he lose himself in a mindless rut. You’d probably let him, moan his name while he fucked you like some sort of senseless beast.

He wouldn’t be the first senseless beast you allowed to use you.

“Felix?” you asked softly, drawing him from those acidic thoughts. The way you said his name was enough to stabilize his thoughts. To focus. No matter what else he did, whatever his actions had shown him to be, he didn’t want to hurt you. He pulled out slowly, thrusting in just as cautiously. You made a soft sound, holding onto his shoulders.

He grabbed your knee to hike your legs further up his hips, rocking into you experimentally until he found an angle that made you gasp. Like this, you were clinging to him and at his mercy entirely. You said his name again as he picked up the pace, his cock driving into you with a satisfyingly wet squelch and the creak of your old bed. It was probably too late to worry about noise, Felix could only hope that your attic room was far away enough to dampen the sounds.

Besides, he was a bit distracted. The feeling of your mouth around him had been incomparable, but being inside of you was better. So wet for him, so _tight_. Each thrust made you react, rewarding him with an endless supply of moans and cries.

Strands of his hair came untucked from where he’d tried to push it back, forming a dark curtain around his face. Your hands left his shoulders to tangle in the dark strands, pulling at his scalp. Felix groaned at the feeling, his hips stuttering in surprise at the biting pleasure. Using his hair like a lead, you pulled him into a kiss, your tongue slipping into his mouth demandingly. He was glad to let you take control of this kiss, to accept your desperation for him. Your desire for him.

His thrusts were getting rougher, less controlled. Your legs tightened around his waist, your hips tilting up to accept him deeper, to pull him deeper. It chipped away Felix’s composure. You, it was all you. The taste of your mouth, the feeling of your body against his, the inviting sheath of your pussy.

Your head tilted away, breaking the kiss suddenly. “Felix… T-touch me, please… I want… Felix, please..” you said, your voice more or less coherent amidst the breathless moans and the stuttered rhythm of his hips meeting yours. His name coming from your wet lips. It was intoxicating, more than that. He felt himself surge inside of you, making you cry out.

Getting his hand between your bodies was awkward, but he was rewarded with the way you threw your head back in a moan when he dragged his thumb up and over your clit. Your back arched, clinging to him even further. Your silken inner walls tightened around him, your body selfishly seeking even more pleasure. It was almost enough to send him over the edge, the sensations driving him wild. Felix focused on rubbing tight little circles on your swollen clit, _needing_ you to come before he did.

“D-don’t stop… Felix… _Felix_ , please I’m-”

He wanted to tell you to come, but all that came out was your name in a broken, tight voice. Your name, again and again, falling from his lips like a prayer. Like a eulogy.

Your pussy tightened around him like a vice, your body holding onto him with a death grip as your muscles tensed before shaking apart, your inner walls spasming and hips trying to meet his in an artless, desperate way. You said his name over and over, one hand pulling on his hair while the other dug into his shoulders for stability.

That was his threshold, Felix couldn’t stop himself after that. He wasn't sure it was even pleasure that drove him anymore, just raw, desperate, primal _need_. His body coiled up with tension, his muscles contracting. It took the last of his rational thought to pull out before he came, finishing himself off with a frantic hand. Sporadic bursts of ropey white cum sprayed across your stomach and chest, some of it even getting to your chin. You watched him with glazed eyes, your mouth open as you panted, your chest heaving with each breath. Sweat shined on your flushed skin, colored with a warm glow by the lamplight. When he was finished, you made quite a sight.

In that hazy half state of pleasure and rationality, Felix was overwhelmed by how gorgeous you looked like this. How perfect you were. How good you were. Like you were meant for him.

Unable to hold onto those crazed thoughts, Felix rolled off of you, sitting with one leg propped up so he could lean against it, hit by the rolling exhaustion of gratification and exertion. Sweat dripped between his shoulder blades, prickling on his scalp. It wasn’t exactly comfortable. Nor was the smell of sex that overpowered the floral scent of your perfume. But for the moment, he was content to close his eyes and breathe. He would have to deal with what he’d done in a moment, but it was nice to simply feel worn out in the most base way possible, to let things rest still.

“Felix?” you asked after some time. Tentatively, you put your hand on his. Gently, like you were afraid he’d shake it off. He sighed, steeling himself as he looked up. Your eyes were more focused now, not as blissed out, but that made the entire sight of you that much worse. Because it was you, sweaty and flushed in the afterglow of sex, utterly debauched. You, covered in his cum. Felix doubted his ability to go again, but he felt the distinct twang of desire when saw you like this, vulnerable and warm and inviting and looking like you’d just had the time of your life. He swallowed hard and looked away. “Are you okay?” you asked, your voice just as annoyingly sweet and soft as before. Like he was the fragile one.

“I’m fine,” he said, shifting away from your touch to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Um, there's a towel there," you said, gesturing towards a pile of folded laundry. He heard the stiff edge of discomfort and unhappiness in your tone. But what was he supposed to do about it? Comfort you? Felix cast a sideways glance to your expression, open and searching, and knew that he couldn’t do that. Things would just end up as they had. Or worse. Instead, he grabbed a towel and wiped himself off before throwing it to you to do the same. Then he shuffled through his discarded clothes, uncomfortable with the vulnerability of being naked.

“Are you leaving?” you asked. Felix didn’t miss the panic in your voice. He should have said yes and marched right out of your room, leaving the inn, but he turned and met your wide, pleading eyes and found that he couldn’t. The words dried up on his tongue and his chest ached.

“I don’t like to sleep without clothes,” he mumbled as he looked away, pulling his underwear back on. That would do, at the very least. For now.

“Oh." You laid back down, pulling the sheet over your exposed chest. The action, almost childish in nature, made you look cute in a way that completely contradicted the things you’d just done. Even with your hair mussed and cheeks red and makeup smeared around your eyes, you managed to look cute. "Will you turn off the lamp, too?”

“Yeah,” Felix said, sliding the knob down until the oil feed died out and the room was plunged into darkness save for what moonlight filtered in through your window.

“You will stay, right?” you asked, your tired voice plaintive in the dark.

Felix sighed, hating the way your voice made his chest ache. Such a hollow, empty feeling. Mourning. “Sure.” He laid down next to you. You didn't crowd him in with an attempt to cuddle, but your hand reached out to feel his shoulder like you were reminding yourself that he was there. Your entire body curled towards him like a flower towards the sun, searching but not quite touching. He could have closed that distance. It probably would have felt nice. Your body had enough soft give to be comfortable, he could imagine laying his head on your chest and letting your heartbeat lull him to sleep. Or letting you curl up in his arms with your back pressed against him, falling asleep with the comforting scent of your hair soap and the soothing sound of your steady breathing.

But he didn’t, laying on his back with your hand pressed to his shoulder.

“Tomorrow morning,” you said, already on your way to falling asleep, “I’ll make breakfast. We even have some coffee beans. It’ll be-” You yawned. “It’ll be great.”

Felix tilted his head to peer at you. In the half-dark, he could make out that your eyes were already closed, your face half buried into the pillow. He looked back up at the ceiling. “That sounds nice,” he said. The words burned like a lie, even if he meant it. That did sound nice. He just wouldn’t be here to enjoy it.

You didn’t respond save for a tired little hum, a soft, sleepy sound. Felix listened as your breathing deepened, evening out completely as you lost consciousness. After a while, you turned onto your back, the hand that had been pressed against him getting thrown across your face. 

Felix didn’t sleep. He didn’t sleep often these days. Instead, he thought. It was too dangerous to think about the past or contemplate the word love or the names of those that had died. It was painful to consider the sleeping girl beside him —you, broken and tragic and pathetic and sweet and terrible you— or what he had done. He needed to get moving. That’s what he always did when his thoughts became impossible to bear.

He was sure you were deeply asleep, he sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed. Some part of him wanted you to wake up, to stop him, to keep him with you. But you didn’t. You were completely worn out.

He dressed silently, moving confidently even in the dim light. The last to get on was his jacket. He shrugged it on only to be reminded of the dagger he’d brought just in case you intended to attack him. Felix took it out and studied the weapon. It was of fine craftsmanship, a proper dagger rather than a standard utility knife. Etched in the metal was a single word. Memoria. He didn’t care much for symbolism or the meaning of things, he’d picked the dagger because it was a quality blade. But then, there was something fitting about that word.

Memoria. Felix looked at you, sleeping soundly. He thought about staying, eating breakfast together. He thought about what it had felt like to kiss you, the tone of your voice when you had called him beautiful. He thought about his long-ago crush and a future that could not and never would be. He thought about a story, something Sylvain had teased the boar about endlessly. A tradition for a country that no longer existed.

Felix shook his head of those thoughts, shaking off the unwanted cobwebs of the past. He was over that, he was better than that. He left your room to get his things and he left the Meadowsweet Inn, departing into the dark, cold night. But he left the dagger on your table. Sentimentality was a weakness, Felix knew that more than anybody else. Traditions of dead men had no hold on him. It was a grave offering, then.

After the war, Felix alone had survived where others fell. His strength was without equal. The mountain of corpses he stood upon was nothing but that, corpses. Their memory was nothing but that, memory. And you… well, you were supposed to be dead.


End file.
